


Under

by blacknoise



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacknoise/pseuds/blacknoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be what Alfred needs, Matthew goes to a darker place than he thought possible--and they both have to get it wrong, very wrong, before they can get it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2009, but I'd like to share it on this archive. Comments and crit are always welcome.

Under

 

It starts in a bar.

It starts over beer on a sticky wooden bar with old, split leather barstools sometime past midnight.

It starts with Alfred sidling up to him, all brass and swagger, crowding. It’s written in the subtle press of denim thigh to denim thigh, the heavy careless forearm weighing on his shoulder, the billion megawatt smile burning his retinas.

This is the beginning of every bet, of every dare between them over the centuries.

The request, because, for once that’s what it is—even if it sounds like a demand coming from his smirking mouth—is, however, entirely different.

The stock first response is, “Are you high?” It sounds strangled tonight, caught up in his dry throat.

The stock negation is an easy laugh, a drawling “ _No._ ”

The next lines are not nearly so familiar; “No—I’m… no. No, you’re not trussing me up for some sick fantasy.” There’s a quaver in his voice, but he likes to think he sounds firm enough.

And then, “Not you, stupid. Me.”

Looking up at him, he sees Alfred’s pupils dilate, dark, for an instant, and there, couched behind the challenge, the lustiness, is some small scared thing, a tentative hunger that’s as hypnotic as a swaying cobra.

And Matthew hides the queasy somersaulting in his stomach, the traitorous, undeniable seedling of interest that roots him to his chair, by asking questions. He keeps Al talking, swallowing hard and staring down at his drink. Alfred’s voice is lowered, heavy like the rest of his presence, impossible to ignore.

He pitches the idea like a salesman, words tinged with the promise of _deal of a lifetime_ , _limited time only_. He occupies the space beside Matthew with ease, cornering him with body heat, the faint scent of Old Spice and sweet tobacco, and the unspoken truth—one they both know well—that Matthew has a very hard time denying him anything.

So, two, three drinks later, he says, “I’ll think about it.”

Alfred grins, nods, and presses something warm and soft into his hands. Curls his fingers over it. “Do that,” he says, and in three seconds or less he’s melted into the crowd and disappeared.

The night ends with him alone in the bar after hours, with chairs being piled on tables and loud music long gone silent and him, turning the leather glove over and over in his hands.

\--

_“The deal is this—you’ll have control. Complete control.”_

He meant sex. Sex. With him.

Matthew runs his hands through his hair, and sighs explosively. It isn’t as though the thought hasn’t crossed his mind before, and even in the distant past, when they were barely more than children sometimes they’d experiment, sometimes they’d touch—but that was forever ago, and really they were more like estranged siblings than lovers now—an old, deep relationship, but all business and old loyalty.

_“I don’t want to have to think, talk, make you do anything.”_

That shouldn’t flatter him as much as it does. The idea of being the leader for once, of having the power to do anything, make _Alfred_ do anything… it shouldn’t have him scrolling through an online catalogue of gags at one in the morning. Latex, silicone. Harness. Bit.

He shouldn’t be picturing Alfred’s proud frame straining against restraints too strong for even him.

He shouldn’t wonder what Alfred’s face would look like, dancing between ecstasy and agony.

He shouldn’t—but he does.

 _“Why would_ you _ever want to—”_

_“—I have my reasons.”_

Then he stumbles onto a page that discusses psychology. Orgasm denial, sensory deprivation…conditioning. Conditioning in the old, Pavlovian sense. Dog, Bell, and Food become Alfred, Cue, and Orgasm.

Limited time only. He licks his lips.

A cue, a cue…

 _“Why_ me _, then? I-I have no idea what I should—how to—“_

_“—You’re right for it. For what I want, you’re the best fit.”_

Alfred knows how to charm anyone and anything into giving him his way.

Why are his hands shaking?

He turns off the computer.

\--

The first time they try, it’s in a tacky motel room (smell of old cigarette smoke, late-80s décor, ashtrays in ashtrays and long, ratty beige carpet) in a border town so nondescript that it could belong to either one of them. The invitation is by text message, because in person would be too awkward, over the phone would be too weird, and he tends to ramble in e-mails. Text is kind of tacky, but the brevity suits the situation. He arrives first, so he has time to fidget. He smooths the sheets needlessly, chases a fat fly out the window, watches said fly circle a lamp outside doggedly, and splurges on a shot of scotch from the tepid mini-bar.

When Alfred arrives, a little dusty from the drive on the Harley, he’s quiet, and instantly Matthew is lost. There’s a moment of impasse; he’s waiting on Al to speak and Al is not speaking. Al’s not speaking, hovering a few steps in from the doorway, because he’s waiting for _him_. Deferring.

Matthew is lost.

“Uh—why don’t you come sit down, eh?” he blurts, gesturing at the area of mattress beside him.

Alfred frowns slightly, just a tiny crease between two golden-blond eyebrows, but he does smile, just a bit, and walk over. Five minutes pass in gaping, restless silence before he shakes himself and slips on the leather gloves. Hands wrapped up nicely in leather that squeaks and creaks, he can pretend that maybe they’re someone else’s hands—someone braver, harder, readier for this. He swallows.

“Strip,” he orders, and he manages to keep from sounding utterly pathetic.

Alfred is spurred into action then, standing up in front of him and shucking clothing bit by bit. He swallows thickly, as Al reveals perfect tan skin slowly—oh, and he has been working out again, nice—and deliberately, glance darting up to assess his reaction. His reaction, of course, is to slip a leather hand into his own lap and coax himself harder and harder. This much is easy. A free striptease, Al’s eyes on his hands, on the growing tent in his pants. Easy.

Alfred shucks his Calvin Kleins, shows himself, all muscle and half hard, then stops, waiting. “Well?” he asks, breaking the illusion, “What do you want me to do?”

Damn, damn, damn. How could he have let himself believe he’d be good at this? Shit.

“Uh,” he falters—feels it slipping away as the seconds slip by, “Sit back down here”—he gestures to his crotch—“and I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Alfred snorts, not unlike a horse, short and sharp through his nose. He steps closer, still swaggering. Deodorant. Tobacco. Leather. Standing right over Matthew’s legs now.

Matthew reaches up and grabs him around the hips, tugging him down to sit—to straddle, really, and _mmm_ , there’s pressure, a nice firm ass clutched, hot, through the gloves. Here’s easy again—he can rock his hips up against heavy heat, feel Alfred getting harder against his chest, give instinct the reins for a moment. He can graze teeth over a thick collarbone, up the fluttering line of carotid pulse, along a strong jaw. He can draw breath, humid breath, then dare to press his lips against Alfred’s—surprisingly soft.

He can feel Alfred tense. Hips stop mid-hump, shoulders crawl an inch closer to his ears.

Fuck.

Alfred gets up—and where did that beautiful erection go? Backs away, shaking his head slightly. The pants go back on, the shirt and jacket. He looks frustrated. Disappointed. He opens his mouth to say something, once, twice, then finally throws out a flip, “Maybe next time, Matt—I’ve got shit to work on at home.”

Matthew can’t get himself to say anything as Alfred steps right back out the door.

The door closes, not loud, not soft, behind him.

Matthew tears off the gloves angrily.

Alfred’s Calvin Kleins stay on the floor where he left them. After a second, he reaches over and moves them over to the (ratty, ugly, stupid, _stupid_ ) bed next to him.

He’s left to reach into his jeans, grip himself in the room alone, his rhythm fast and punishing, nearly painful, as he tightens, tightens, and gives, gasping out curses as he does.

 

\---

Alfred is inexorable, inevitable. He’s the black hole, whirlpool, magnet—he’s gravity.

He’s also determined to get what he wants when he decides he wants it.

So he shows up at Matthew’s office before lunch the next day, looking all business, presumably to ask about upping softwood exports or something. Matthew’s not ready to see him.

Humiliation is new for him, at least in this arena. This is new shame, doing what comes naturally, what’s always worked before, and having it ruin the act entirely. He’s no _Francis_ , but he’s no virgin either, and he’s always done just _fine_ as a lover. This is new inadequacy, the implication that he doesn’t measure up to Alfred’s expectations—Alfred’s needs.

It tastes sour in his mouth, and it makes him miserable.

What’s worse is that Alfred is watching him with remote eyes, entirely different from the words coming out of his mouth. Again, Matthew watches his own hands, the safest place to look in the room, because Alfred’s presence expands into every corner of his office, leaving him an island, alone.

He makes the mistake of looking up, and catches sight of lips being worried into pink fullness. Sees Alfred leaning over his desk, searching him for, for something.

“So we’re agreed?”

“Yes, yes of course, Mr. Jones, but you’re dropping the duties to eighteen percent.”

“Yeah, alright. Hoo- _wee_ , sometimes you drive a hard bargain, Mr. Williams.” Cavalier smirk.

Enough of this, already.

“Al—really—what do you _want_ from me?” It sounds plaintive. Pathetic.

Alfred closes his eyes for a second, no doubt asking God above for some _patience_. “Matthew,” he says, enunciating—drawling—slowly, “I want you to take a deep breath,” oh, and now he sounds _patronizing_ , and Matthew just wants to punch him—“and meet me in the bathroom in five.” Make that punch him or fuck him silly. Then he smiles, lowers his eyelids like a goddamn pro, and steps out of the room with all the authoritative grace Matthew was never able to manage.

His grip tightens on the desk for a moment, and he draws that deep breath Alfred prescribed, stilling his nerves. He manages to stop the nervous jitter of his hands before it gets out of control. In his top drawer, behind the stationery set, are the gloves and, under them, a strip of condoms.

He takes the condoms, but leaves the gloves.

Five and a half minutes later, he’s locking the bathroom door behind him. It’s a one-person affair with little risk of discovery. It’s absolutely claustrophobic, with Alfred in there with him. Crowding again.

Alfred in his space. Alfred breathing his air. Alfred _wanting_.

Alfred taking the lead for a second, attacking the zipper of his black suit pants. Al cocking his head; “What, where’s the fight? Try to get a little rough with me, why don’t you?” Smirking.

Fine.

Fine.

“Shut up.” He does.

Of course he shouldn’t get a thrill out of seeing Alfred struggle to take him. Big mouth or no, Mr. Hero can’t manage to make this look easy. It was a grasping, fleeting rush of confidence that spurred him to push Alfred down to his knees, and jam his cock (which went from zero to sixty—well, four to eight-and-change, really—in record time) past those gluttonous lips. Thank heaven for small miracles.

Okay, so this is worth all the bullshit. Alfred’s got a nice mouth, he decides. Al’s got just-right lips to keep the teeth away from his skin, eager tongue to take him close to the edge within moments, and sucking cheeks to make deadly-tight pressure.

But, oh.

That’s not a triumphant smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. It is _not_. That’s not a double-dare in his eyes, a taunting _betcha can’t_. _Betcha won’t_.

So this is a challenge—this is what Alfred’s doing.

Matthew pins him, sandwiches him between the wall and his hips (Oh, and Alfred _likes_ that), and it isn’t long before he’s just fucking his mouth. Alfred’s still yielding, pliant and easy, but there’s something _mocking_ about it, and it’s turning this encounter ugly, fast.

And now Alfred’s not looking at him at all. He’s fixated on a space somewhere past Matthew’s right hip, even while Matthew jams himself roughly past his soft palate and he gags a little. Matthew plunges in with abandon, feeling like a glorified fucking dildo at this point, like his importance to Al ends at the base of his dick. He slams harder.

When he comes this time, Matthew feels a quick, hot coil of something that isn’t arousal, or desire. It’s a flicker of raw, unrefined anger.

“My place, Friday,” he says, and barely recognizes his own voice.

A distant nod from Alfred on the floor.

\---

The medium is the message.

Matthew is next to certain McLuhan wasn’t talking about fetish gear, but he’s applying the theory anyway, browsing the shelves at _Priape_ in Montreal Friday morning. The message has to be that he’s not going to be fucked with anymore. Once you’re in, you see it through to the end. That’s how it is in war, that’s how it is in peace, and that’s how it’s going to be with Alfred. This is just another thing that Al has started, another thing that’s left Matthew as the one to see it through.

He drops a small fortune on restraints; his bed is solid antique maple, but he’s sure Alfred could do horrible damage to it if he thrashes hard enough. There will be no thrashing. No, there’s titanium chains and shackles sheathed in leather—an angry bull elephant (which would be a rough estimate of Alfred’s freakish strength) would have a hard time budging them.

He goes a little nuts in the store, getting spreaders and plugs and masks and clamps, seven flavours of lube. After all, Matthew is nothing if not thorough. There’s harnesses, dildoes, a book of “BDSM for Dummies” that he had to eat crow and just _buy_ … He’s racked up a twenty-five hundred dollar tab by now, but there’s one thing still missing. Something to shut Alfred’s pretty mouth.

Ball gag? No, it’s too cliché. He thinks of Alfred’s favourite car, his souped-up vintage Mustang. He remembers how Al rocks and moves on a furious bronco, laughing at the 8-second goal and hanging on for a near minute. He almost laughs. Oh, it’s only fitting.

“Bit, please.”

\---

That same Friday night is the first time they get it right.

He opens his front door before Alfred can even knock, gesturing him inside and closing the door behind him, feeling Alfred’s gaze lingering on him ( _Yes, Al, these chaps are real leather. Yes, I’m wearing the gloves. Keep staring._ ) as he walks. He swallows, once, all the nerves and weakness internalized in that single gesture, then turns to look at his neighbour—his consenting, eager quarry for the night.

It’s the assessing glance he throws at Alfred that starts things off, right there in his foyer. He looks him in the eye, mirroring Al’s own look of brazen challenge, then down—dressy shoes, Levis, twenty year old Aerosmith concert tee—and back up.

“Evening, Alfred,” he murmurs, and hey—there’s that vicious little thrill; see how he colours, see how uncertain he is now.

“Evening,” his reply, husky and hoarse.

Easy’s back again, in the closeness between them, in Matthew’s hand creeping possessively up Alfred’s front.

Matthew snags him by the chin, pinching it between two fingers and tilting it up a fraction, so their gazes are level. Alfred’s letting him. Not even a cursory flicker of resistance. “Alfred, remind us both exactly why we’re here.”

Alfred shivers. Matthew can feel it, through the leather. When he replies, his lips are barely moving. “It’s because I asked for it,” he says softly, “Because I asked you to.”

The hand moves; loosening, splaying out, slipping down along Alfred’s throat, his bobbing Adam’s apple. “That’s right," he says, like he’s praising a particularly slow child. “You did. You pushed and _pushed_ and now, Al, maybe I’m going to push back.” Lips grazing Al’s ear, he tells him what his safeword will be.

Alfred says, “Uh huh,” jerkily—understood.

Matthew marches him upstairs, herding him from behind, cutting off escape routes as they head to his room.

His bedroom is too big and too bright to look like much of a dungeon. Really, toys aside (and they’re _strategically located_ , not just out in the open) there’s nothing suggestive at all about the space. He’s lit all of three candles, and they sit benignly in a windowsill. Maybe another night, if this goes the way it should, he’ll get to drop wax on Alfred. Another night.

Tonight, he’s reaching around Al from his position behind him, unbuttoning the Levis and guiding the zipper down. He’s slipping a hand inside—well well, look who waxed his junk; wasn’t that “sooo gayyy” last year?—and grabbing Alfred, hard. Alfred hisses, head lolling back onto his shoulder. And here Matthew obliges with a forward grind of his hips. _Still good, Al. You’re still so damn good_.

Alfred helps to get his jeans off, no underwear to speak of today. The shirt goes next, and Matt takes a greedy feel of the length of Al’s strong back, up to solid shoulders, then back down to the rise of his ass, to the dimples that sit right above them. He presses leather thumbs into those dimples, kneads, once, at the defined obliques, the flanks trailing down and forward. Grinds again, because it feels good. There’s something intoxicating about Alfred, about everything he is and everything he pretends to be.

“On the bed.” It’s whispered, but it could well be a shout.

In any case, Alfred obeys, eyes bright with anticipation, dark with it as well.

“Arms out.” Obeyed. Matthew reaches under the upper mattress and brings out a cuff with a length of chain. Around Al’s left wrist it goes, then Matthew gets the other one from the other side of the bed and there goes the right wrist. Then it’s just a tug or two and the chains are taut, giving Alfred three feet of space from either bedpost.

Alfred tests the restraints surreptitiously. They clink and squeak, but do not give an inch. “Titanium?” he tries.

Matthew gives him nothing, only smiling darkly and tugging him by the calves until he’s lying on his back. “Spread.” It’s barely more than breath, but Alfred’s obedience is nearly immediate.

Matthew uses duct tape to wrap around Alfred’s thighs and shins, binding them together so that they’re bent and drawn up and separated, impossible to straighten, difficult to close.

He takes a second to just look at him.

He registers the faint sheen of sweat standing out at Alfred’s hairline, the pink flush suffusing his skin, and how _hard_ he is, bound and laid out on his bed. Alfred’s ass is nearly to the edge of the bed, and Matthew is getting impatient.

So he steals a kiss—the same kiss that scared Alfred away before. He can’t protest now. He’s rougher with it this time; he knows Al wants no tenderness, no gentle treatment. He climbs astride Alfred, and grips his jaw hard enough to hear it grind. Alfred howls into their interlocked mouths, but adds tongue right into the mix, silently encouraging. Matthew lets himself enjoy this wicked-sweet moment, Alfred’s mouth and his mouth, Alfred’s cock diamond-hard against his inner thigh, and the pretty, pretty tremors beginning in Alfred’s trussed-up legs. He bites Alfred’s lips.

He backs off just slightly, and grabs the final piece for the night from under a pillow.

Jaw still pried open, Alfred eyes the bit with incredulity, in response to which Matthew merely smiles. This is him taking charge. He _tells_ Alfred, one more time, what the safe word will be. Whispers it in his ears as he gags him. Suggests the option of five even pulls on the chain if speaking is impossible.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Al. Do you understand?”

Alfred makes a garbled noise against the obstruction in his mouth, frowning in consternation as a line of saliva escapes his mouth and trickles alongside his face. He nods however, eyeing the ceiling as if in shame.

“Good,” Matthew breathes, and he climbs off of Alfred’s chest to snag the lube from the bookcase. With it, he moves to stand at the edge of the bed, in between Alfred’s open thighs. There’s little pageantry in slipping out his own cock, or in slicking it up efficiently. He is transfixed, however, by the visual of a black leather hand, glistening, sinking a finger into Alfred’s hole. It goes in slowly, clenched as if in a vice, and comes out even slower, pressing and circling. Hard to remember, sometimes, that that hand _is_ his hand, that same hand that has Alfred’s head thrown back, has that soft, clear whine twisting in Alfred’s throat.

It’s going to be a bit of a struggle, lasting long enough to fuck this guy senseless.

So he adds two fingers abruptly—and yes, Alfred definitely noticed that. The fingers thrust into him a bit more rapidly, scissoring and twisting, _digging_. Alfred continues with the helpless noises, that get deeper and needier with every press, every nudge closer to the prostate.

Alfred’s frustration in their first encounter had to have been an act. _Now_ he’s nearly dying from it, eager little lifts of the hips, a pointed exclamation of “Hnnnnnnnnnghagh”.

“Oh,” Matthew says, playing at nonchalance and feeling everything but, “In a minute.”

He tugs off the gloves and grips Alfred under the arms. He gets his blunt nails in, deep, scoring welts down Alfred’s sides, drawing tracks of red.

Alfred _roars_. He roars, and sucks air through his nose like it’s his job.

But Alfred can’t touch him—Alfred can’t stop him.

There are no five pulls on the chains, so he goes ahead, catching Alfred on the downswing of his outburst by filling him, fast and sharp and _right fucking there_ , striking prostate in one. Alfred does gasp, then, loudly, and the strength of the chains is seriously tested for the first time.

Matthew slides back a touch, then pushes back for more, leaning over Alfred to take what’s been laid out for him.

One thing he’s realized about himself over the years is that he’s a biter. So that, that is _very_ easy. It’s taste, taste, taste, strong flesh, reddened skin, tangy sweat that he bites, sucks, licks. Tears. He lets himself recede to where it’s raw, where it’s simple. It’s simple fuck forward, pull back, fuck forward again, pound pound pound, kiss grab lick.

Then Alfred fucks him over once again.

Alfred’s _gone_ somewhere again—somewhere separate and apart and away. That gaze on the ceiling is glazed, dead. He’s gone quiet and still, and Matthew feels like he’s been splashed with cold water. Again. Again and now it’s like fucking a corpse. Again just a walking, talking dildo who’ll tie this bastard up and cater to every fucking fantasy.

Alfred, that son of a bitch. That manipulative, fucked up _liar_.

For the first time since the October Crisis, Matthew Williams loses his shit. In a handful of milliseconds, he’s grabbed Alfred by the hair—noted that a few pull all the way out—and slapped him hard across the face. The noise rings across the room like thunder. Suddenly it’s become, _show him, show him—don’t you dare look away, not now._ “FUCKING _LOOK AT ME!!!_ ” he screams, angrier than he’s ever been.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=35m4d1g)

And Alfred stills, and even through the blinding fury Matthew can see how his pupils constrict, sudden and sharp, then dilate just as fast from a wash of adrenaline. He watches with detachment as a shudder seems to pass through the flushed body under him.

Alfred’s head turns slowly.

As their eyes meet, it’s abruptly clear that something has changed. Alfred is present, all of a sudden, eyes wide. They stare at each other for a breath, then another, frozen with Matthew’s teeth bared and Alfred stunned into silence.

It’s this moment that extends, thrumming with the energy of possibility. It’s a rope bridge across a chasm. It’s a bungee-cord into the abyss.

Matthew twists his hand, jerks his wrist just a little, tearing more hair free.

Alfred makes some sort of noise, high and low, thin and deep, and _comes_. Hips jerk, cock pulses, body slumps.

In the stillness that follows, it’s clear that it’s real now—real as Matthew’s stinging palm, real as the swelling red handprint on Alfred’s cheek, real as the streaks of semen painting Alfred’s heaving chest. They’ve taken their first step together down the rabbit hole.

Matthew is only hazily aware that somewhere inside the moment, he’s spent himself as well. He discovers it second-hand, however, in the sensitive softness of his dick, the fading ringing in his ears, the wetness all around him, inside Alfred. It is less than what it should have been, for him, utterly eclipsed by a different thrill.

Tiny droplets of blood well up from the abused follicles on Alfred’s head.

He extends a hand tentatively, just the fingertips, barely touching the side of Alfred’s hot, damp face. After a moment’s pause the blond head presses back against his hand like a touch-starved cat. Tired, big-sky eyes flutter out a silent, _thank you_.

Matthew looks down at him. Keeps his expression carefully neutral.

 _You need me. You need_ me _now._

It’s a strange thing, having the feeling of success coloured by both utter terror, and deep, dark satisfaction.

\---

He’s not sure who he sees, the next morning, when he looks in the mirror. There’s something hard there, now, and look though he might, he can’t pinpoint its origin. What he can see, though, is the tightness under his eyes, the stronger set to his jaw. He doesn’t dislike it.

Alfred had been let out around three in the morning. They had not spoken, simply sharing a grim glance in the doorway before Al walked away. Something had screamed through the silence, though, in the slowness of his step and in the backward glances. Now Matthew knows it like he knows every millimeter of the Mackenzie River’s nearly endless path.

Alfred will be back. Again and again, if he has to.

Here and now, Matthew presses fingers against his orbital bones, massaging in tiny circles and concentrating on the pressure. The sun is only just rising over the pines, but he has already decided that the day will be spent alone and high.

He’s sluggish from the endorphins, drained from the sex. Perversely happy, and still recoiling in disgust at times.

Alfred is delicious; addictive like heroin, he thinks, stuffing a bong full. He makes all the right noises, has just the right body, just the right taste. Matthew lights, inhales. Alfred tends to darken, shades of peach and strawberry where he’s bitten. The look of muscle standing out against glistening skin in a futile effort to keep still, the rapid rise and fall of his broad ribcage, they’re still as clear as day in front of his eyes.

He exhales smoke and tension, sagging back into his chair.

His vision gradually begins to swim, attention becomes short and jerky, and then he’s drifting. What bubbles to the surface in an instant are ideas, half-baked plans that he’s pretty certain he won’t remember.

It’s leather, now, always leather, when he thinks about it. Leather to bind, to break, to tear. To caress, blindfold, restrain. To control.

There’s a lapse in awareness, just for a second, and suddenly he’s _very_ aware of his hand, curling around his furiously hard cock. He strokes himself slowly this time, savouring it. He pictures Alfred’s eyes, his hot mouth. The way he looked last night, truly, truly surrendered. The weed makes it last longer than it should, though the feelings double, triple, quadruple from the nexus and ripple and blend until he’s mad with it. White brilliance blooms behind his eyes abruptly, then goes the sound, then it all goes.

But he stays there, breathing, Listening to himself breathing.

He wants this, too. _He’ll_ keep coming back for more.

There on the couch, untucked and undone, he sleeps.

 

\---

Conditioning Alfred is surprisingly fun. It involves subtlety well suited to a person whose life story consists of largely being overlooked. It started that one Friday night with an ugly outburst, in hot rage, but now he hones it with a clear head and clearer intent.

The second time they get it right, Alfred’s hands are bound up together in one big leather sleeve, clumsily supporting his weight on the bed. His feet, too, are locked together and wrapped tight. He’s blindfolded, ear-plugged, and collared to the bed so he can’t quite straighten up.

Matthew leaves Alfred’s mouth free this time so he can _hear_ the noises Alfred makes. Part of him wants to push and push until Alfred chokes out the safeword, and part of him prays he never does.

So he starts soft tonight, a goose feather tracing the center line of Alfred’s sack. It’s instant, the gasp and twitch, the little flutter-clench of his glutes, the drawing-up of “Fort Knox”. He walks softly around the bed, heel-toe, heel-toe, careful not to make a loud noise or telling vibration. The way Alfred’s bound tonight, kowtowed with knees splayed apart and bound hands struggling for purchase, looks like a parody of a prayer. Eventually he’ll shudder with muscle fatigue, but America is tough, strong, and enduring.

Which makes it that much better when he cracks.

There’s a bitten lip, as he flicks the feather across two pert, pink-brown nipples, a shaky sigh as the feather dips between his thighs, and an unrepentantly heated groan as the feather-tip circles the flared head of his dick. Nice.

A strangled yelp as he jabs tender inner thigh with the quill end.

Yes, then the other side. Al’s tense now. A little nervous. Up a little, in a little. Leaving angry red marks like mosquito bites, but never quite drawing blood. Just a scratch on sensitive perineum. And Alfred’s breath’s coming faster again. Hitching and heaving. Matthew’s lips twist upward, gradually.

Behind Alfred again, he runs soothing hands up the insides of his legs, and, _ha_ , Alfred surges into the touch, pressing into him as he skims the gloves up his erection, lingering fingers along it as he does. Then he takes the hands away and for a moment Alfred humps at the air, straining for a touch that has vanished.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=b49bbo)

Matthew steps away silently, leaving Alfred to remain in position, uncomfortable, while he gets a lit row of tealights, seven little candles nestled in a block of wood. He puts them right under Alfred’s torso, running lengthwise from sternum to navel.

Alfred sniffs once, surely catching the scent of wax, smoke, phosphorus, and tenses a bit. The heat rising from the candles must only be teasingly warm at the moment, but if he sinks down just a little, they will burn. His shoulders and triceps have begun to vibrate, just slightly, with the strain of holding such an awkward position for so long.

Good timing, now, slipping the dildo in; a treat from the cooler. A condom filled with ice, slicked up and ready to go.

Alfred yelps, and his torso bows downward, toward the fire. It jerks up almost as quickly, and a shaky “F-fuck, _oh…_ ” tumbles from his mouth. It’s the plaintive note that gets Matthew hotter than anything else, gets him fucking Alfred hard with ice, twisting and working it nonstop. When he gets it in just right, and _why is this so easy now, so natural_ , Alfred’s nearly wailing, dodging fire, fucking himself on ice, incoherent now, and shaking. Shaking hard.

One leather hand to grip his balls, roll them just slightly. Alfred whimpers. It’s the tug of the hair, though, strong and to the roots, and Alfred is done. Trigger, trigger, he’s done.

Noisily, exultant and despairing at once, he finishes, and extinguishes one of the candles in the process. He can’t collapse, though that looks to be all his body wants to do; the other six candles are burning hot and bright, and with the collar keeping him in place he can’t fall far enough to either side to avoid them. So he flinches and trembles there, breathing heavy and doing all he can to stay up.

Matthew pulls out the earplugs, and of course Al’s head blindly twists for any sound to orient himself. All Matthew gives him to hear is the wet-slick sound of him bringing himself off, and a soft sigh and grunt as he comes. Alfred flinches as a stripe of milk-white lands across his face, a diagonal line along his open mouth.

He licks his lips, then. Slowly. _Jesusfuck_. If Matthew hadn’t just come, he certainly would now.

He blows out the candles and unhooks Alfred bit by bit. He sets his hands and feet free, blindfold last. Alfred rolls over onto his back, blinking and groaning contentedly. He sprawls on the sheets like he owns them. Matthew climbs over him, pressing chest to chest, savouring the scent of Alfred and the heated flush of his skin. He bites, pulls, and finally kisses and licks, to taste himself on Alfred’s lips.

It’s subtle, that little flinch before Alfred kisses him back, but Matthew pours himself into that flinch, and hates it with everything he has in him. He bites Alfred’s lower lip again, once, and peels himself off Alfred’s body. He pokes a finger at the collar roughly, flicking the sliver ring in the center.

“You’ll wear that until we meet next week.” It sounds a little meaner than he intended, but of course Alfred doesn’t notice.

“Okay.” Alfred practically fucking coos, “Not a problem.”

Matthew pats him on the hip, then ushers him out of bed. Al’s gone in five minutes.

They did well tonight, for the most part, he thinks. Still, he feels incomplete. They still have far to go to find Alfred’s extremes. How deep can they get, until Alfred begs him to stop? It’s not far enough. Not enough. Not yet.

He kicks at the ice-dildo, which scatters droplets of water across the floor as it skitters away.

 

\--

The week passes easily enough; he manages to get back to work and focus on his actual _job_ , being a functional Nation and all that it implies. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about Alfred, oh, every six seconds or so. No, his mind’s lit up, twenty-four seven now, with blasts of memory-sense, of scent, musk-sweat-lube-leather; sound, Alfred high and low, grunting and growling and moaning, chains clinking, wood groaning; of touch, leather, leather, leather, skin, sweat, slick.

He barely spares the swine flu reports a second glance, because he’s got the UN meeting coming up, which means _Alfred_ , which means another chance to play. Paperwork gets shoved to the side and he stares at the ceiling.

The hair-pulling will do just fine as a cue, he decides. So now he’s going to be sure to do it, each and every time Alfred gets off, ringing the bell when the good dog gets his food. He wonders, sometimes, if Alfred even knows, if he even notices the connection his body has learned.

Probably not.

 

\---

 

The meeting comes around in due time, and he discovers, walking into the conference room, that Alfred is at his side in seconds, in step an unconscious few inches behind him. He’s counting on the fact that no one else will notice. A scrutinizing glance tells him that the collar’s still on, under the buttoned-up shirt and the tie, just a tiny peek of black underneath a black shirt that could be mistaken for an undershirt if one doesn’t look too closely.

Their eyes meet briefly before the meeting begins, but that’s all.

 

When they break for lunch, Al sidles up to him again. Something’s smaller about him these days. There’s no more sense of crowding when he’s this close, all the allure still, but none of the intimidation.

“You’ve been thinking about this all week, I can tell.” It comes out of his mouth flippantly, but it’s serious and true. He has, too. They both have. He reaches into his computer bag, fishing around. He finds the thing quickly, but looks around, waiting for a chance to bring it out.

Alfred’s expression is grim for a second. Lips press into a tense line; it looks like he wants to deny it. _Fuck you, Jones. Fuck you._ But at length he does nod. “Sure have,” he says, grinning too-white teeth.

He presses in, shoulder to shoulder as the other Nations begin to mill around and file outside. “You’ll put this in,” he says, _sotto voce_ , handing the plug over to him under the rim of the table, there’s just a little tremble in Al’s fingertips as he gets a hand around it. Yeah, it’s big. “You get it in now, during break, and keep it in until later.”

Alfred swallows audibly. “Alright.” He guides the plug into his pocket, takes off his suit jacket and holds it by his hip to hide the bulge of it, and heads off, maybe to the bathroom, maybe to a vacant room somewhere.

Matthew sits back down to wait out the recess (not likely he’ll be missed outside; he never has been). So he sips complimentary conference hall water, and lets his mind wander. Right now, Alfred’s probably looking around nervously, listening, careful, for an intruder or passerby. He’s loosening his belt carefully but quickly, dropping his pants and hoping the ring in his collar doesn’t jingle.

Definitely, he’s reaching back and fingering himself, fingers coated with lotion, lube, oil, something. He’s taking a few deep breaths, maybe staring at the plug and shaking his head before positioning it, withdrawing fingers and starting to press it into his hole. Perhaps his knees weaken, wobble, perhaps he breaks a sweat, easing it in inch by inch until the flared bottom holds it fast.

Matthew shifts forward in his seat just a little. Has to think about caribou migration and labour laws to fight down an eager, potentially embarrassing erection.

Gradually the Nations file back in as recess draws to a close, and, inconspicuous as ever, Alfred is amidst them, chatting, laughing, back-slapping. Matthew turns and doesn’t quite crane his neck to scrutinize him from across the room. Hunter’s eyes pick up the minute limp in stride, the ever-so-slightly wider stance. Oh, it’s in, alright.

Al sits down (gingerly), three seats away.

Matthew flicks the switch on.

It’s the lowest setting, just a warning (because he’s nice like that, of course), but Alfred does jump a little as the plug begins to vibrate. He shoots Matthew a quick, _you asshole_ glare, squirming, but Matthew stares him down and cranks the thing to the halfway point. It’s incredible how quickly Alfred breaks eye contact now—no rising to the challenge, just looking steadfastly down at his lap as a flush grows on his face. Even the mighty United States of America can be trained. It feels better than it should.

So the UN meeting plods on, and Matthew knows neither he nor Alfred is actually listening to the proceedings; he’s fiddling with the remote, turning the intensity up until it’s actually faintly audible (he knows when Francis’ head starts to swivel to seek out the sound)… which is also the point where Alfred’s lips part and his eyelids flutter. Then he dips it back down to the noticeable-but-not-satisfying level, and watches Alfred huff and bite his lip. Maybe sink a little lower into his seat.

The meeting rolls along gradually, talks of war and insurgency and famine, and he goes up (and of course someone’s already moved on to the next topic and will doggedly talk over him while he’s up there) to discuss Arctic sovereignty and remind Ivan where his borders actually lie. On his way back down from the lectern, Yao speaking up from his seat and drawing the attention of the entire floor, Matthew brushes his fingers through the hair at the nape of Alfred’s neck. Just slightly, soft as breeze. Alfred groans lowly, and grips the arms of his chair like a lifeline.

Sitting back down, Matthew sees Al shudder, mouth out a tiny curse, arching off his chair just a bit, then redden further in embarrassment. Because he’s looking for it, Matthew also sees the wet stain spreading high up on Alfred’s left thigh. He purses his lips a moment, then cranks the vibrations up a notch.

Alfred has a nearly pained expression on his face now, banging the back of his head against the chair’s high back and desperately adjusting himself to find a seated position that doesn’t make his abdomen quiver uncontrollably. Arthur, observant as ever, shoots him a questioning—make that suspicious—look, and Al, actor Al, manages to silently wave him off with that cavalier grin of his. Drawls, “It’s hot in here, is all,” as if that explains the trickle of sweat at his temple, or the collar of shirt he looks desperate to tug down—but can’t without also exposing the leather collar underneath. Maybe his hips are rocking a little, involuntarily. He deliberately doesn’t look at Matthew, opting to shuffle papers instead, and Matthew gives him an intense pulse out of spite. He fumbles the papers, but recovers well. Arthur gives Alfred a long look, searching, (but he’s never going to look Matthew’s way, so he’ll never figure) and frowns darkly.

It goes like this for three more hours. During the afternoon break, Alfred navigates the conversations, the nations vying for his attention, with his briefcase carefully held in front of him. Matthew sits quietly, ignored, and waits patiently for the conference to end.

\---

 

It does end, eventually, and the other nations file out to go home. He pretends to, lingering in the bathroom for ten or fifteen minutes, fiddling with his tie in the mirror as he hears the others leave one by one. The sun’s low in the sky now, and most of the fluorescent lights inside are off, the building dim with shadows.

He has a short, unhappy moment, staring down into the chrome sink. Again, wondering why this, why Alfred wants this from him. At this point he knows he likes it, whatever it means to have Al. He’ll keep pushing for him. Digging for him. And he’ll find him, one day soon. They’ll get to the root of this—whatever it is—then it’ll all be good between them, no more of the bullshit and pretend. For that, he laughs a little, ruefully. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

Alfred is waiting in the room, naked and kneeling, when he returns. Just the collar, thick and dark, and a stiff dick, desperate red. Nostrils flare, catch the sharp tang of fresh arousal on the air, and in the silent room he can hear the soft, low hum of the plug, still buzzing away.

He’s not really in control, here, of how he’s pulled toward Alfred. It’s tunnel-vision, suddenly, just Alfred, a stretch of hardwood floor, some chairs, long shadows, and him. He closes the gap, single-minded in his intent, hard in an instant. Al watches him with those remote, vague eyes, eyes that glitter like sea glass with both infinity and nothing behind them.

He grabs one of the chairs and pulls it over to where Alfred’s kneeling. In the shadows and orange light of setting sun, he sits down in front of him, penning him in with his legs. He leans forward.

“Al,” he says it flat, the way he’d say “radiator” or “thumbtack”. Al is all attention, the sun blazing his eyes orange and gold for a second. He twists the plug’s remote a little more, but doesn’t break Al’s gaze at all. Alfred breathes heavier, though, and it’s as loud as screaming in the silent boardroom. By now, he’s past words. By now there’s not much on his mind past the orgasm neither of them are letting him have. “Al, touch yourself,” he says, and the little catch in his voice can go straight to hell.

He does so immediately, like his hands can’t get there fast enough. Full throttle, needs-to-happen-yesterday pace. He’s not going to last a solid minute at this rate. That won’t do.

Matthew crooks a finger into the ring of the collar and tugs Alfred closer a fraction. “Put it on,” he says, handing him a rubber ring. There’s that little flare of mutiny, just a second of it, and then he slips it down over his dick, up under his balls. Winces a little. Oh well. It’s the only way to trust Alfred won’t just go off _in media res_ and fuck it all up.

“Show me how much you want this,” he hears himself saying, “And it’s yours.” And Alfred must get a thrill from being denied, too, because he just leans in and unzips Matthew, mouth half open and an intent look in his eyes. Buzzz goes the plug.

Alfred’s damp, sweaty head nuzzles his inner thigh—his broad shoulders are quivering and bowed, breath hot on Matt’s cock, jutting, hard, out from between the zipper’s teeth.

“I’ll let you come,” he’s saying now, thumbing Alfred’s flushed cheek, “I will, but only if you do a good job.”

Alfred closes his eyes, inhales through his nose in shiver-stutters, eyelids drooping in silent gratitude as he plants a wet kiss at the base of the cock in his face. One kiss bleeds into another, connected with sloppy swipes of hot tongue, and “Good…” comes out of Matthew’s mouth before his brain is able to finish the thought. It’s discipline for himself too tonight, resisting the temptation to just shove Alfred’s head down onto him and ride it out. He cranks the remote to maximum, slides deep right within Alfred’s gasp, and finally has that wicked mouth around him again, a lapping tongue that will never be satisfied.

Alfred’s hands get bold then, kneading and pawing at his thighs through the trousers, fingers teasing his balls like a high-class hooker might. Matthew can’t hold on, try as he might, so he tugs at Al’s hair again, this time hard and out of control, and comes halfway in, halfway out of Alfred’s mouth. Alfred’s tongue, lips, chin, are wet and dripping with Matthew’s ejaculate. It’s sloppy, nasty, terrifically hot.

Hand still in his hair, Matthew says, “You can take the ring off now.” The fumbling hand works fast, so fast, and the moment the restriction’s gone, Al comes all over his shoes.

It takes nothing more than an arched eyebrow and a glance at soiled loafers before the proud, golden head bows even lower, and, tongue to leather, licks his shoes clean.

The sun slips below the horizon, and everything becomes shades of indigo.

Maybe he should reach out the way he used to, touch, keep trying for the intimacy that eludes him even though they’ve been fucking for over a month now. But Al’s perfect like this; attentive, focused, and flawless. Who’s he to ruin that?

He turns off the vibrating plug, tucks and zips himself, then steps over Alfred on his way out the door.

\---

It’s later, again, another night, when it really starts to slip away. Bit by bit Alfred holds out on him, doesn’t make the noises, doesn’t respond the way he used to. Alfred’s forcing Matthew; passive-aggressive in a way that should be impressive coming from the master of the unsubtle. And Matthew, pushover, moron that he is, is still going with it, every night harder, every night darker. It’s not even kinky anymore, it’s getting to the point where it’s just _ugly_. Matthew still plays along, training himself to like it and want more. Alfred’s his cement shoes.

This time—and for the life of him now he can’t recall whose idea it was, if it even matters—they’re on the floor in the Canadian embassy in Washington. It’s cold marble tile, and Alfred’s on all fours. The leather collar is tossed under a desk somewhere.

Around Alfred’s neck, instead, is Matthew’s belt, threaded through the buckle into something between a leash and a noose. They’re fucking, naturally, and there’s no finesse at all behind it, just a sound like two steaks being slapped together. Alfred’s slipping on the floor and Matthew, kneeling right behind him, is as well.

He’s not sure what to call it, but they look halfway between walking a dog and riding a horse. Something unpleasant in him is coaxing him to pull the belt tighter, and Alfred’s not saying no. He’s not saying much of anything, really, but he _is_ still working himself hard on Matthew, silently begging for more. It’s still not enough, so he hauls back on the belt, brings Alfred up, gagging, silent, and fucks. Fucks making sounds barely distinguishable as human. It’s everything ugly; anger, possessiveness, jealousy, loneliness, desperation. It’s everything they’ve become.

The best response comes when he jerks the belt, noosing it sudden and tight around him. Like a choke chain on a dog, it makes him buckle for a moment, threaten to collapse. When he inhales, there’s a real sound to it, a hiss, distorted noise. His tongue sticks out just a little. Matthew loosens up and Alfred sucks air, gasping. He tugs back again, harder this time, and really ruts up against Alfred, pinning him down to the tile with one forearm pressed on his back and hauling hard on the belt strap at the same time.

Alfred’s ass is tight and perfect, in spasm like the rest of him, hurtling toward orgasm and asphyxiation like lines converging. His lips go pale, close to blue. His eyes begin to flutter, to roll. He fits Matthew snug like the leather gloves, and it’s carnal, addictive, dangerous. Human heroin again. All the same Matthew’s ears are still straining, secretly hoping to hear a half-whispered safeword, a chance to stop because as good as this feels this doesn’t feel good at _all_ —

Everything’s tight and vicious as Al lets go, jerking fiercely and nearly yanking the belt out of Matthew’s hands. Matthew’s senses fail him for a moment, winking out like a dying star, and they’re both down to the floor, his hips shoving and twisting, ass flexing, teeth biting, hungry, hungry for God knows what.

He doesn’t forget himself—he can’t—so he lets Al go, loosens the belt around his neck, and closes his eyes for a second in sheer relief as the air squeals its way back into Alfred’s lungs. Even though he’s lying over Al, covering his body with his own, Alfred shivers. He shivers so hard it’s as if he’s seizing. Belatedly, Matthew realizes Alfred’s been trying to say something.

“What?” He demands, still panting. Still inside.

An air-starved gasp, then, “…Closer…”

It’s never going to be enough, is it?

It shouldn’t matter that Alfred can’t touch him; that’s what he wants, after all. The thrill is supposed to come from absolute control, from having Alfred bent to his will. Is it really control if he decks him the way he so badly wants to?

Right for it. Best fit. Who was he kidding?

It’s easy to penetrate and pretend it’s dominance. Easy to slide past a ring of muscle, slam home, and call it victory. It isn’t victory. It’s not even close.

With every stutter of his hips, every breach of the ironclad façade, Matthew is losing. He’s losing to Alfred, and he’s losing himself.

~~~

The time they go too far, it’s in Matthew’s basement. There’s a St. Andrew’s cross there, an X-shaped wooden saltire set with restraints at each corner. Matthew built it himself, several devoted hours spent in the woodshed in his backyard. He’s so angry these days, so desperate. He has been thinking and overthinking this scene they’re going to play out all day, every day.

He catalogues what he knows. Alfred needs to be tied down; maybe just for the feeling of it, maybe so he can consider himself helpless or powerless against him. So the shackles are double, triple reinforced—Al can pull and pull; he’ll be going nowhere. Alfred needs to _hurt_ ; there’s a sick thrill he gets from getting thrown around, from being uncomfortable. So Matthew has the Cat. The Cat is stiff, raw leather, nine tails of wicked braids, knotted at the ends and clutching half-inch glass shards at the tip of each tail. This, too, had to have been hand-made. Nothing else would be right or fair. Alfred needs to be debased. He needs to be violated. He needs to say the word that will make it all stop.

This is the show, tonight. This will be everything.

This has to be it. This _has_ to be the night they reach Alfred’s limits, because this is the night he’s going to stop. Matthew takes a deep breath and steels himself. Tonight, as much as he wants, needs Alfred now, they have to get him what _he_ wants, then get as far away from one another as possible. For a moment, he almost thinks it could be that easy.

He’s going to get that word out of him, tear it right out of his flesh, then disappear.

Alfred’s breath hitches in wonder as he comes down the stairs and sees the Cross for the first time. Matthew watches him watching it; sees his eyes travel the carefully lacquered arms of it, gauge the span—custom built to Alfred’s height and reach, check the restraints themselves. Alfred looks over at him, then, noting the Cat with a raised eyebrow and slightly widening eyes.

This part, the part before the action, is always silent now. Alfred undresses, drops his clothes to the floor while Matthew watches him, feigning disinterest. But look at him—look at the hard body, the perfect proportions, the willing, unmarked skin. Who wouldn’t want that? Who could really resist?

Alfred licks his lips— _still such a brazen slut_ , he thinks—and walks up to the Cross, eyes down, but turned toward Matthew. That’s Matthew’s cue, predictable as if they’ve done this for years. He walks to him, roughly turns Alfred to face the Cross and shoves him forward. He puts each wrist into cuffs, kicks Alfred’s legs apart and locks them in, uncomfortably spread.

Matthew says what he knows Alfred’s aching to hear. Into his ear, sneering, he says, “I’m going to pull you apart. I’m going to see every inch of you. You’ll have nothing to hide—you’ll be naked for me, inside and out.” Alfred’s lips part, just a little, and he exhales slowly.

He paddles him lightly with the Cat. It’s slow, slow enough that each tail makes its own noise, a blunt cascade of soft sound. The glass doesn’t bite, yet, but it does scratch, scoring tiny marks like papercuts. Alfred’s muscle twitches below the skin.

A slightly heavier hit, across Alfred’s underwear-model ass, that makes pink-red stripes blossom after a second’s delay. Alfred’s breath hitches, and already he’s pressing his cock hungrily against the centre of the Cross. Idiot. Whore.

That slow, simmering anger bites him again; makes him swing his arm back further, come down harder and right across Alfred’s back. There are clean lacerations now, shallow bleeding gashes across the middle. Alfred thrashes, yowls like a cat in heat, _how appropriate_ , and braces for more.

Matthew gives him more, receding and receding until any unmarked skin becomes an insult, an offense, something he has to hit. This has to be complete. Absolute, or Alfred will never beg him to stop. As it is, Alfred manages no words, is tense, gasping and crying out in intervals.

Skin is hanging off his back in strips. The pattern of blood in sweat is mesmerizing, a macabre, beautiful watercolour. It must sting.

“You want this, don’t you?” Matthew is panting hard, untouched, gripping the Cat so hard that leather gloves squeal against the leather whip. It’s not that hot in his basement, but it feels like the temperature is rising fast.

“Yes!” the word _tears_ out of Alfred, half-screamed.

He’s not sure what the right answer should have been. “But do you understand how _fucked up_ you are? Don’t you see what you’re making me do to you?!” He’s howling the words, spittle flying from his mouth with the force of it. Sweating. Overheating. He whips him harder, double time, sound and fury.

“Gah—yes! I—I’m…” It’s lost, collapsing, fragile, Alfred’s voice. Signifying nothing.

“—Shut _up_! You’re twisted. Sick.” He shuts out the little voice calling _Hypocrite_ louder and louder. Alfred can’t touch him.

“I—” Matthew hauls back and swings the Cat to shut him up, gouging deep, probably hitting an artery because bright red blood follows the tails’ trajectory through the air, whipped along so they stain the wall off to his left. Alfred is one long wail at this point, noise and static and blood.

Still no safeword—his eyes are wet, his breathing harsh, but it won’t come out of his mouth. Matthew’s stomach lurches. He swallows. No time for that. The Cat goes down. The gloves come off.

Alfred can’t touch him, so he touches Alfred. Little warning, no preparation, he spreads him and shoves in, raw, tearing. The sound Al makes then is _intense_ , intense in that good-and-bad way, and definitely loud. It’s slick inside, quickly, and he deliberately doesn’t think about why. No, now he slaps and scratches open wounds in Alfred’s back, pulls at torn skin, growls and beats and fucks. Wants to fuck the word out of his mouth, because this _can’t_ go on forever.

There’s a shift, somewhere between the blows, between the punishing jackhammer-thrusts, somewhere but impossible to tell when, where Alfred’s sound changes. The wanton, hungry, deep and eager sound breaks. It crumbles, shatters into a sound astonishingly like _crying_. It _is_ crying, Alfred’s head hanging forward where it had arched back before. The soft patter of tears falling into the center of the cross. The sharp smell of iron.

Nothing about this is easy anymore.

There’s no safeword, here, so he has to play along, grab hair, lick bloodied skin. He can’t stop. He’s doing this for Alfred, giving him what he asked for. This is what Alfred wants. What they’ve worked so hard to get to.

He’s on his way to tearing Alfred to pieces and Alfred’s still not giving him a damn thing.

“Damn it!” He roars, voice breaking. “Fuck!” he slams a fist into Alfred’s exposed side, and there’s a crunch, a pop as his ribs crack. A wet sound from Al’s mouth. Bile rises in his throat but the anger is louder and he hits again, drives knuckles right into the same place. “Fuck you. Say it! _Fuck!_ ” He’s hyperventilating, he thinks distantly. Hysterical.

Alfred makes a choking noise. God, there’s _blood_ spattering his lips, tears and snot, but he still wheezes, “…Sorry…” through his teeth. Not the safeword. Never that. Chokes and sobs. “…’m sorry. Sorry.”

Sorry.

It all dies in an instant. Hot is cold, rage is horror, sex is brutality. The hand in Alfred’s hair unclenches and slides out. Shaking his head rapidly, he pulls out of him, takes one, two, three horrified steps backward. There’s blood on his hands, under his fingernails, his stomach, blood on his dick—limp and miserable. He shivers convulsively. Blood streams down Alfred’s mutilated back. Blood oozes from inside Alfred, down his thighs. Matthew’s knees threaten to buckle.

Alfred is struggling to breathe as Matthew unhooks him with shaking fingers. What little air he gets, it comes out as “ _Sorry, sorry, sorry,_ ” the whole time. Alfred’s chanting it like a mantra.

The basement—suddenly it’s impossible to breathe there. It’s too crowded, too nasty, too bloody and wrong. So he runs, stumbling, hating himself with every cowardly step. He runs into the bathroom, lips tingling, locks the door, and pukes in the toilet. It’s gasps, retches, sobs, a feeling like he’ll bring his heart up and out with enough gagging.

He hears Alfred’s rasping breath and uneven, shuffling steps. Hears the whisper of a hand barely touching the bathroom door.

“Matt,” the tone is anguished, horrendously thin and rasping. Oh, God. Oh. God.

“Please just go,” He’s begging, starting to cry himself, “Get out of here. Get to a hospital.”

There’s a long, agonizing pause—just the sound of laboured breathing from behind the door—then footsteps, fading away.

He spends the night curled in the dry shower in his basement, head in his hands, skin scrubbed raw.

\---

Matthew hears secondhand that Alfred has been MIA for a few days now. The news is secondhand because he hasn’t left the house either. He lives between his bed and his kitchen, and even then he can’t touch meat, can barely eat at all. Just tea and toast, at large intervals, all in all still mostly untouched. His house is quiet, silent but for his breathing, but somehow there are still echoes. There are the ghosts of screams from the basement, remnants of moans surrounding him as he lies listlessly in bed.

He imagines, often, that he can see blood flaking from his hands, though they’re pink and chapped from being scrubbed several times an hour. If he closes his eyes, he sees Alfred’s back flayed open, Alfred’s ass torn and bleeding. If he doesn’t concentrate fiercely, his ears fill with the sound of Alfred’s strident, wounded breaths, the gasp and the wheeze. Then comes the surge of guilt, the sickening truth that all of this is his own doing. He clutches the sheets tighter, pulls the duvet over his head.

The curtains are drawn. His house is quiet.

\---

Day 1

He wakes in the shower, wedged in the far corner with his whole body sore.

He shuts his eyes a moment after they open, memory crashing through the stupor mercilessly.

His first thought is, _Alfred_.

He turns to the side, dry-heaving. Nothing comes up.

His next thought, staring down at his hands braced shakily on tile is, an incredulous _I’m not sure who I am anymore._

It’s that thought that haunts him as he pulls himself upright, and walks out of the shower, leaning on the walls for support. Perhaps he has a momentary lapse in foresight, because as he opens the door back into the main space of his basement, he makes an awful, strangled sound.

One, maybe two seconds of shock, then he’s hit with the sight of blood on the walls, gone rusty brown-black overnight, streaks of semen on the Cross, droplets of it on the floor beneath it, and the lingering stench of sex gone terribly wrong. His legs threaten to fail him and his stomach rolls again.

He runs out of the basement. He closes and locks the door. He leans against it, features twisting unpleasantly the way his insides are. He looks up at the ceiling as if it might have answers for him.

It has none.

\---  
Day 2

He had decided to clean up hours and hours ago, but thinking and doing are two different things. Some deeper, instinctive part of his brain has labeled the basement as Very Bad and Dangerous, and his hands start to shake every time he passes the door that leads down there. Soon he’s even avoiding the area around the door, penning himself in bit by bit until his bedroom, which has ghosts of its own, is his only refuge.

It’s so soft, the low groan of slow wind through the space between windowpane and windowsill. This sound gives and morphs, changes with the power of the wind from second to second. He’s dragged back to weeks and weeks ago, here, in this bed, where he hit and bit and pulled, but it was enough—it was only just enough, and he liked it. And _he_ liked it.

It was never _right_ though, even when it was good, hot and carnal, like he thought it should be. He wanted, always wanted, and Alfred never, ever gave. And Alfred wanted something, too, but he couldn’t say what, and certainly couldn’t say “stop”.

Eyes closed or open, holding his breath or breathing hard, Alfred is there like a ghost and a curse—his lover—almost-brother—who he’s failed so completely.

\---

Day 3

The gloves were his all along, Alfred’s. His favourite pair, for flying—how could he have forgotten? They are soaked stiff in blood now, lingering in a shadowed corner. Near the Cat, a tangled snarl of leather and glass, crusted in red.

The way down the stairs to the basement is a death row walk, screams and shadows, raw, visceral terror. He totters down the steps, unwieldy, with a large bucket full of soap and warm water. He works on the walls first, hands gentle on the old blood like they never were on Alfred. He dabs at it gently, and it flakes, then crumbles, then melts, into the water, only leaving the faintest stains behind.

Cleaning the Cross is a greater challenge still—not only the task itself of scouring filth set into the wood, but following, with his eyes and with his hands, the path he’s made and the lines he’s crossed. Pinkish suds rise up out of the wood as he washes, and the tremor in his hands only intensifies. He can’t leave, though; if he leaves he might never come back. He fights back the nausea, stands through the misery threatening to buckle his knees. He pauses for a moment, gasping for air that doesn’t seem to want anything to do with his lungs.

He has no idea what he was thinking.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and stills himself slowly. He dunks the sponge back into the water, a filthy grey-pink by now, and rinses the soap off the dampened saltire, finally stepping away from it heavily.

There’s no hesitation in him as he takes crowbar and sledgehammer to the damned thing, taking it apart bit by bit and smashing it into firewood. He breaks it until it’s unrecognizable; hours of work gone in a matter of minutes. Afterwards, his cheeks are wet and his throat raw, but exactly how it happened is lost on him.

He burns the wood in a far corner of his yard that night. The Cat, too, is burned; the leather goes slowly in the blaze, warping and blackening and curling around itself, reminiscent of a dying insect. In the back of his mind, as he stares into the flames, he thinks that maybe one of the Cat’s glass barbs is missing. He deliberately does not let himself imagine where it’s gone. He goes inside as the air chills. He tucks the gloves, cleaned, wrapped in one of Al’s shirts, in a drawer by his bed.

He doesn’t sleep.

\---

Day 4

It’s a text message that brings him any news. He hasn’t taken any calls in five days, and his absence is finally being noticed. It’s short, from France, as expected; a brief “ _Where have you been?_ ”

As dawn creeps sluggishly into sky, he finally makes the effort to reply, just “I don’t think I’ll be coming to meetings for a while, sorry.” _Not sorry enough_ , a voice inside jeers.

The face in the mirror is unrecognizable. It’s gray and gaunt, shadowed rings further recessing eyes, lips pulled thin and tight, a pale gash in thickening stubble. _Sorry._ Empty.

A reply text jerks him out of his grim fixation. “ _Is something the matter?_ ”. The short bark of laughter that punches out of him at this, even that is unfamiliar. It rasps. Crackles.

He doesn’t respond this time, retreating back to his bed to stare listlessly at a blank wall. Always now, he’s chiding himself; weakling, coward, chickenshitsonofabitch to be lying here, sunk in misery, wasting himself down to nothing _deliberately_ while Al, America, is nowhere to be found. Could be dead even, but no, he would have heard that, _felt_ that, no matter how far he shut himself away.

But what is he supposed to do? To say? Where is there left to go, if Alfred came to him, trusted him, built him into something that Alfred needed him to be, and instead of being that, instead of rising to it like he dreamed he might, _he_ , stupidweakfoolfuckingfool, he went in too far. He let himself sink too deeply. Broken Alfred broke him—and here that alien laugh bubbles up again, hoarse and dry as tundra—or did he break breaking broken Alfred?

It is and was all wrong, one way or another. Alfred dragged him under, and like the idiot he was, once at depth he became turned around. He took Alfred and clawed desperately for the surface, but wound up swimming straight down for the dark of the ocean floor. They drowned there, the two of them, and he can’t see his way out from under the weight of that truth.

He curls his limbs in tighter, like the Cat in the fire, like the dead fly on the windowsill. Once more, no sleep.

\---

 

Day 5

He’s woken—not out of sleep, per se, but at least out of the blank waking stupor he’s substituted it for—by a staccato rat-a-tat on his door outside. He means to rasp out a “Please go away”, but it catches on his dry throat. The knock comes again, firmer this time, and “ _Matthieu!_ ” makes its muffled way to his ears. The time for hiding is up, apparently. With a laborious groan he hauls himself off the bed and shuffles blearily to the door.

France’s horrified expression when he answers the door is a good indicator of how bad he looks. The slight, reflexive intake of air and curl of upper lip tells him he probably smells as bad as well. France masters his reaction swiftly, however, features settling on Concerned and Alarmed.

“… _Matthieu,_ ” he breathes, eyes still a bit wider than they ought to be. Unconsciously, it seems, France’s long fingers twitch, then he’s reaching out for Canada as though he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing.

Canada stares at him for a long space of time, insomnia and misery making him slow. At length he croaks, “Please come in,” and backs away from the doorframe to let France inside.

With a guest entering, he can’t help but feel self-conscious about their surroundings. His house is silent and dark, with curtains drawn and a particularly heavy feel to the air, the scent of stagnation. France, he knows, will pick up on this. There’s no telling how much he’ll infer. Matthew should be anxious, but instead he feels so absolutely hollow that he’s willing to let what will happen happen. Deep down, he’s hoping for a hard slap, a punch to the face, a knife to the heart.

They sit down in his living room, and he tries to play at being a good host, fetching France’s favourite vintage from his wine rack. Francis stands up quickly at his return, snatching the bottle and glasses from his hands—which are trembling _sorry, sorry_ and numb—and setting them aside on a coffee table. It takes a moment for him to register this at all, so in the next instant he’s remarking France’s hands clasped around his own, and being pressed back into his own chair. His legs are only too happy to give out, and he sits very heavily.

Francis stares into his eyes, and his mouth is working, asking something, something… What?

“What?” Matthew croaks.

France swallows. Pushes limp, oily hair out of Canada’s eyes and kneels, six hundred dollar slacks and all, in front of him. “Matthieu… what’s wrong?”

Matthew inhales and exhales convulsively. “I’m not sure,” he says, feeling an inappropriate smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He never said.”

 _Something_ happens behind Franicis’ eyes just then. Something slides into place. “Matthieu,” he says very carefully, “Something has happened to _États-Unis_.” France pauses, no doubt seeing Canada’s expression deaden further. “He told no-one… do you know where he is?”

He feels his gaze slide to the air beyond France’s shoulder.

“ _Matthieu!_ ” France says sharply, seizing him by the jaw surprisingly gently. Forced to look him in the eye, Matthew crumbles, a litany of pressurized apology, _sorrysorrygodsosorryhelpmemyfault_ , breathing in drowning-fish gasps.

“H-h-hospital…” he chokes.

France nods once, surprising him. “Yes, that’s right. As I’ve said, _États-Unis_ told no one, but _Angleterre_ happened to have his foreign minister admitted that same night for stomach flu. An utter coincidence, but he overheard nurses discussing a curious patient with abnormally swift wound-healing, admitted for deep cuts in his back and several broken ribs; one Monsieur Jones.”

He goes rigid, blood pounding in his ears, trying and failing to process this news. Did England _see…_? Do they all know?

“He checked out before Arthur could visit,” France says succinctly. “Against orders, we learned. All he knows—therefore all he told me—was that.”

Matthew blinks at him, the unspoken question building in the air between them.

“I was the first to notice your absence,” France explains. “At first the timing seemed like simple coincidence…but today I am not so certain.” He pauses, as though wrestling with an impossible idea. “The last conference we all attended… two months ago, now. Were you two playing a game?” From the bend of his words it’s quite clear he doesn’t mean musical chairs.

Matthew flinches.

Francis nods minutely, then sighs, tucking a limp lock of hair behind Matthew’s ear. “ _P’tit loup,_ I can’t fix this for you. You need to talk to him.”

“…How did you know?”

“These things happen when people don’t know what they’re doing. When they do not talk about things. You need boundaries. Limits. Perfect trust.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Matthew whispers, feeling his face shift into something ugly. “He wanted me to, and he made me want to… I didn’t know when to stop. He kept asking for more—“

France puts two fingers against Canada’s lips. “Talk to _him_.” His smile is sad. He gets to his feet and offers a hand to help Matthew stand. He takes Francis’ hand and is pulled directly into a hug, comforting unlike any other they’ve shared in centuries.

France sniffs. “A shower and a shave first though, yes? _Vas-y._ I will make you something to eat.”

 

\---

 

France takes his leave after brunch—hearty, flavourful stew and fresh bread, mercifully meatless and utterly delicious, leaving Matthew clean, groomed and fed, and staring at his telephone from a few feet away, as though it might lunge up and bite him in the throat. He spends a half hour this way, quelling the waves of panic again and again. What could he possibly say?

He reaches for the receiver before nerves overwhelm him, but just then his phone rings, causing him to jump. He fumbles with the phone for a second, then answers apprehensively.

“Hello?”

“Hullo, Bruce?”

Ah, England. “No, it’s Matthew.”

“Pardon?”

“ _Canada_.”

“…Ah.” An awkward throat-clearing. “Yes, yes of course.” Harrumph, harrumph. “I’ll get straight to it, then. Have you been told about America’s condition yet?”

Told… seen and caused, more like. “Y-yes, yes, France just told me.”

“I want you to go see him as soon as possible. I suspect there’s more to the situation that meets the eye. Surely you’ve noticed his behaviour changing in the last few weeks?”

“I-I guess…”

“Yes, well. He _has_ been acting differently. And you, er, Matthew… you’re nearest to him. I believe he trusts that you know him well enough to understand him.”

Does he? Has he ever? His eyes begin to prickle. This is just too much. “Yeah,” he says softly.

“… He won’t take my concern as anything but prying. Something is the matter though. It’s almost as if… as if he’s letting himself be hurt. You’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Yessir.”

“He’s proud, Matthew. Very proud. You’d do well to remember that.”

 _I’m the worst kind of fuck-up._ “I do—I mean, I will.”

“Good lad. See to it, then.” And just like that, England has hung up. Matthew resets the phone and runs his hands through his hair roughly.

 

\---

He needs to take a few moments to collect himself before he picks up again, this time dialing the very familiar pattern of Alfred’s cell phone number.

Hearing it ring is agonizing. The gap-seconds between each ring doubly so.

Finally, just when he’s about to hang up, there’s the crackle. The breath on the other line. Just enough to set his heart racing and make his stomach drop.

Alfred’s voice is still weak. “Hey, Matt.”

Caller I.D. Wonderful. Matthew swallows. “Hi.” There’s another large span of silence here; a silence that screams. He takes a deep breath. “Al… Al, are you okay?”

Alfred tries to laugh it off, but there’s a wet rasp in his laugh that confirms Matthew’s fear. “Fine, fine, Matt.”

He wants to scream, _how can you say that?!_ He’s still lying, even now. Matthew rolls his eyes heavenward, nearly despairing. How can he still—even after everything—He can hear the Hollywood smile falsifying every word. “Wanna meet up later?” Al asks, practically baring his neck in submissive invitation.

He feels bile crawling up his throat again. “Al…” _No, not again. Not now, please don’t make me…_ “We can’t keep doing this. I’m hurting you. You’re hurting _me_.”

There’s something that breaks then. It’s almost tangible, across the line. There’s the hitch in Alfred’s breathing. The shiver in his inhale.

“Fuck. Fuck, I screwed up. I _am_ screwed up.” The slight smile in his voice twists into something miserable and his tone becomes distant, falling off at the end. Almost pleading.

He still wants to be there for him. He wants to chase down this problem for him, to fix it somehow. Kiss it better. But he knows, deep down now, that chance is gone. “I’m no good for you… I don’t like what I did. Not at all. I just wanted…” _Just wanted you…_ and here he finally asks, finally gets to put it out there, “Why _me_ , Al? Why all of this?”

Alfred begins to say something several times before it comes out. Matthew imagines him turning the Cat’s missing glass shard over and over in his hand. “I’m so sorry, Matt,” he murmurs, so faint he has to strain to hear it.

“I wish things could go back to the way they were,” Matthew blurts out, his throat tight and scratching.

There’s a long silence on the line; vacuum space on America’s end. Then a soft, sad, “I don’t think there’s any going back, Matt. Not from here.”

Before he can get over the painful astonishment and ask what Al means by that, there’s a soft _click_ , and the line has gone dead.

\---  
Surfacing

 

Matthew sleeps like the dead. For the first night, he doesn’t dream. He passes out, cold, losing himself in the stillness. It’s not that he’s not still miserable—he is—but now he knows something, has a bit of an illusion of closure. He returns to work this week, going through the motions until they don’t seem quite so robotic anymore. He eats. He sleeps. He sleeps, but now he also dreams.

The dreams are the rawest kind, all scent and sound and vivid feeling. Alfred’s there with him, under his fingernails and deep inside his chest, stealing his air. Hurting. Burning. Scraping. Drowning him. But it’s sinking in gradually, with every gasping, clammy-skinned awakening, with the weak-limbed aftershocks and sticky sheets. There really is no going back.

No going back—maybe it’s true. Everything _is_ different now. In a way, the world is upside-down. Underwater.

Another week passes like this, with him living a shadowed copy of a life—A life that’s gone grey and still. Then a phone call comes from Alfred. He should have known he wouldn’t let something go so easily. He’s too tenacious for his own good. The buzz of his silenced cell phone skittering along the table is jarring. In an instant the old nausea is back. It doubles as Al’s number appears on the screen. He shakily answers.

Al jumps in immediately before Matthew can muster a greeting. “Hey. Hey, don’t hang up, alright?” Words practically tripping over each other. “Don’t go.”

As if he ever had a choice. He sets his shoulders. Exhales. “So talk. Let’s talk, Al. Please.” He takes a seat. He doesn’t trust his legs.

He hears Al take a steadying breath on the other line, near identical to his. “L-like I said, Matt, I really screwed this one up.”

That burn crawls up his throat again, pricks at the back of his eyes. “What did you _want_? What did you want me to be?” It’s time, now. It’s been time for a while.

He can be patient just a little longer as Al gathers his thoughts, swallows a few times into the receiver. Al’s voice is so soft. “I needed it, Matt,” he says finally. “I needed it _so bad_ ‘cause I’m always the one, you know? They all want me to be everything and sometimes I just can’t.” Ragged, raw scrapes in the back of his throat. “It had to be you—I trust you. You’re safe. You’d never—“

“—Didn’t I, though?” Matthew’s closing his eyes against the pulse pounding in his skull. You monster, you sicko, you should have known if he asked you’d do it and if you did it you’d fuck it up. Safe, what the fuck is that?

“Because I made you,” Al insists, almost harshly. “I took what you wanted to give and I made you give me more because I didn’t know how to stop.”

“Why?” The million dollar question.

“Matt,” Al sighs, “I’m—I’m scared.” Matthew raises his eyebrows at this, but keeps listening. “I didn’t think anything could hurt me anymore. I can’t be like that, it’s too lonely that way. And you’ve always been—”

“—Right there,” Matthew finishes softly, his heart beginning to do some wild acrobatics in his ribcage.

“Yeah. You know me. You’ve always known me. I guess I thought if you did this with me, I could really just let go. Let you take over. Stop being the one in control. It was selfish.”

Matthew’s mouth tightens a fraction. “It was. You have no idea how much I—I wanted to get you what you wanted.” Then guilt twists in him and his own voice fades to nearly nothing. “But eventually all I wanted to do was hurt you until you didn’t want to do it anymore. Make you need to stop.” _And still keep you around somehow because I’ve forgotten how not to have you._

Alfred makes a sound on the other end of the line. Something like a heated sigh, but with a note of misery that punches right through.

Matthew grimaces. “I felt like you were using me.” There. He said it. He shifts a little in his chair, waiting.

“I was, I guess. But that isn’t all there is to it, Matt.”

“Al—“ He’s not sure if he can handle this.

“Let me say this.”

“…Okay.”

“I wanted to be sure I could still be hurt. I wanted… that. I did. But when I think about it—” and here he trails off.

“When you think about it?” Matthew prompts softly.

It’s tiny, whispered truth. “When I think about it, I’m realizing I want you more than I want anything else.”

Matthew exhales, but there’s a tiny _Oh_ nestled in the sound. He takes one deep, bracing breath, then asks simply, “Can I come over?”

 

There’s a relieved chuckle on the other line. “’Course.”

 

~~~

 

Seeing Al for the first time, as he opens the door to his Virginia house to let Matthew inside, no one would know a single thing was off. The smile is still roguish and bright. On the outside, he still looks Hollywood-perfect. Still, as Matthew crosses the threshold, keeping a careful measure of distance between them at all times, he sees that searching emptiness in Al’s eyes, reaching out for something. For him.

It takes a lot not to reach out and touch.

It begins the way he could have predicted. The awkward exchange of “Hi”, the coughs, the shuffling feet. One of them blurts “D’you want to sit down?” and the other “Should we move upstairs?” Sure enough, after some hesitation, and perhaps against Matthew’s better judgment, they’re climbing the stairs to Al’s bedroom. Al’s leading and Matthew can’t believe that after all this his eyes automatically trace the outline of Al’s legs in his jeans, the rise of his ass as he takes each step.

He purses his lips and looks away.

In Al’s room, still standing safe-distance apart they end up just looking at each other, a wealth of bruises, sweat and pain stretched across that space.

“So,” Alfred begins.

“Where do we go from here, Al? I don’t know anymore.” He feels so helpless. Afraid to move.

“I said there was no going back. I mean that. We’re in too deep for that,” Al says, and there’s some steel in his eyes now, something earnest. He’s standing a little straighter. It’s nice. “Matt—” the way he says it, though, is nigh on reverent. Like he’s tasting the syllable on his tongue and savouring the shape of it. “I still need you with me.” His lips quirk, and, glancing at Matthew, who’s too stunned to say much, he turns a little and begins to pull off his t-shirt.

There are no scars, none at all; even, whole skin where gaping mouths of blood used to grin. Matthew can’t tear his eyes away, can’t stop looking. Even with everything that’s passed between them, he can’t help but want. Alfred pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. His smile is small, unsure. There are cracks in his expression that Matthew desperately wants to fill.

“I should walk away,” Matthew says, even as he edges a little closer, even as he undoes two buttons of his red flannel shirt.

“I should let you.” A dry swallow. Alfred is helping him out of his shirt and easing in close. Alfred’s breath is ghosting across his lips. He can nearly hear Alfred’s heart beating.

“If I want to stop, I’m going to stop, whether you want me to or not.” Oh, he’s trying, trying to stay firm. There’s a soft hum of a zipper being unzipped, a whisper as Al slips out of his jeans and kicks them across the floor. Their lips brush gently, and Matthew shivers.

Alfred gazes at him, naked, finally naked, open and honest and hopeful and scared. He takes a deep breath. “Okay.” Alfred’s warm, rough fingers trace at the line of his obliques, a light touch beginning at Matthew’s hip and sliding down at a diagonal, lower, lower, closer to center. A touch, for him, from Alfred. Oh. “Stay with me, Matt. Please.”

His throat catches there, from growing pleasure or choking emotion, he’s not sure which. “Okay.” There’s no denying it any longer. He needs this just as badly. More, even. His eyes flicker down to the meager space between them, the supercharged, tingling air. He’s rock-hard, so fast, testing the seams of his jeans as Alfred’s fingers coax their way past his waistband. In the space of a heartbeat, he’s stepping out of his own pants, and what was air and space becomes a perfect seal, skin on skin. They’re pressed together now, at the hips, a wet and rolling caress. Someone moans, but he’s not sure which one of them it is.

In his ear, in a warm, coiling plume of breathy words, Al asks him, “Tell me how you want me, Matt?” And there’s a short spark of old fear that rises in him—what does he want? Will he hurt him again? But the tip of Alfred’s nose bumps against the shell of his ear. Alfred’s lips flutter against him. “It’s okay,” Al says. “C’mon, it’s _okay_.”

Another fragment of a moment is all Matthew gives himself, to just stand there, lost in the not-space, in the magic of this connection. Then his eyes cast across the room, landing on a large, armless chair. He jerks his head toward it minutely and Alfred looks over at it. “Have a seat?”

Al lowers his eyes and smiles, and he’s beautiful like that. He steps back, letting cool air replace the heat of his body, and goes over to the chair to sit.

Matthew makes a short stop at Alfred’s bedside, reaching under the leftmost pillow for a tube of KY he knows is there, then, like he can’t get there fast enough, he’s back at Alfred’s side, calmer for the contact. He allows himself just a sliver of his old role—just enough to whet both their appetites. Leaning into Al’s ear, he whispers, “Al, I’d like you to grip the back of the seat with your hands.” He feels the shiver that runs through Al. Tries not to love it too much, because this is the dangerous part. “C-close your eyes,” he says next, and Alfred obeys, like before. Alfred’s control is his own blindfold. His self-restraint is his rope. His knees spread automatically.

It would be so easy, now, to slide back into the automatic. To cuff Alfred across his eager mouth, pull his hair, bite him, choke him. He’s all but inviting him to do it. Matthew knows he wouldn’t protest. And there’s still part of him that wants to do it. He can see the word “More” shaping itself with Alfred’s lips. It would be the OK, the go-ahead for anything, anything at all.

But Alfred bites it back, shuts his mouth against that request. Seeing him struggle and overcome makes Matthew pull back, too. They’ll rein themselves in, rein each other in. They’re not going to do it again, not like that, not without talking.

Matthew gulps down another bracing breath, squirting a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. Here he kneels between Al’s spread legs and moves in close, dipping down to suckle at the head of Al’s cock. Al’s gasp is familiar, but the taste is not, the heady, salty tang of him. As Matthew swirls his tongue around the tip, he realizes something; this is new, too. The novelty makes him plunge in with abandon, slackening his jaw and sucking firmly, while reaching behind and beginning to prepare himself, working lubricated fingers inside, one by one. Al pants hard, chest heaving, but his eyes are closed firmly, his lower lip pinned between the rows of his teeth.

Who knows—maybe he can be strong for them both.

He’s learned how Alfred moves when he starts to get close, the way his cock twitches, the sounds he’ll make, so when he feels that, hears that, he backs away, withdrawing his fingers at the same time. He’s flushed with need. Starving. He straddles Al, this time, knees on either side of Al’s hips. Al’s breath hitches beautifully as Matthew’s cock, jumping at each bit of brushing touch like it’s a live wire, skims down from his sternum to his abdomen. Matthew grips Alfred, that touch familiar, and presses Al’s dick against his ass, registering slick pressure and going weak from just the feel of it.

Alfred’s eyes are still closed, and suddenly, Matthew doesn’t like it. He can’t do this alone. “Al—look at me.” It’s not an order, not a demand. It’s a plea. “Look at me. Look at me, please.” You’d better stay with me, too. Damn the quaver in his voice. Damn the fear.

But Al does look, opening his eyes slowly, and there’s wonder in the gaze; realization and more. Holding his gaze, Matthew sinks onto him. He hisses as he does; Alfred isn’t small, and Matthew hasn’t done this in a while. So he goes slowly, easing down and feeling himself relax, allow, accommodate. It stretches, burns, stings a bit—but it’s a feeling that warms him from head to toe. He guides Alfred in, breathing shallow, careful. He feels sensation chasing its way up his spine, lighter than a throb yet heavier than a shiver. It’s fantastic.

Gradually, he makes it down, sits flush against Alfred who’s staring now, as if he’s something new, something fragile. “I—“ Alfred begins, unsure.

“—Shh,” he breathes, closing his eyes and feeling Alfred, hard-warm-hot within. He rocks his hips experimentally, can’t stop himself from moaning, thinking _Yes, thank you, please, thank you._ Alfred presses back tentatively, and Matthew gets louder. Hungrier.

And maybe he says something between his unintelligible noises, because suddenly, warm, heavy arms surround him, tug him closer. Maybe it was _touch me_ or _closer_ or just _please_. Whatever it was, he’s grateful for it. Because now, finally, _thank you thank you thank you_ , Alfred presses his face—forehead, nose, softly kissing mouth—to Matthew’s chest, just below the collarbone. He makes a rumbling noise, and, God, it drives straight to Matthew’s core. His legs clutch tighter to Alfred’s; strength to strength, heat to heat.

Matthew surges up, resting his cheek onto Al’s bent head as they begin to move. Al’s hands are strong, bruising pressure, gripping his hips, the flesh of his ass. Al’s cock, _please, thank you, oh_ , is firm and inexorable, unspeakably perfect.

It’s good, better than good, them coming together like this. No hurting, no bleeding, no crying; here it’s wild and unrestrained and seemingly endless. It’s right, the wondering, soft sounds they’re making, the pace and rhythm not set to damage or punish, just to please. Matthew can thread his fingers through soft amber hair now, feel the shudder through Alfred’s frame, love how it ripples into him, too, locking them together as Al pushes harder, moves faster.

He slides a hand between them, bracing the other around Al’s neck. He touches himself, long, firm strokes in time with Alfred’s hips, and then he groans softly as Alfred’s hand wraps over his own and joins him there.

Then it’s seconds, breaths, points of contact. It’s a deluge of feeling, everywhere, everything at once, everything tight, everything waiting. It’s a blissful moment of utter silence, Al’s mouth open and hot against his skin, his own, loose, surprised, overwhelmed.

Then he’s shaking, tense and tight then lax and falling, Al drives in deep, clutching so tightly he lifts clear off the chair, them together. Just. Right.

It’s sticky and a little uncomfortable, the moments after the fact, but they stay there for a long time nevertheless, breathing, and waiting as sweat cools, as hearts slow. Alfred’s hugging him sloppily, whispering into his skin, and Matthew’s absolutely not letting a tear or two go onto the top of Al’s head.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=29gmq37)

 

 

 

\---

Maybe one day they’ll play with the edge again. Maybe America will need that freedom, to submit safely and privately, to relinquish control in the care of someone he trusts.

Maybe one day soon, Canada can be that person. Maybe he’ll grow from this, and be better for America and better for himself. In this moment though, they’ve retired to bed together. Matthew is a bit sore, and tired down to his bones. Alfred had to half-carry him to where they are now; Al holds him close, rubs slow circles low on his back.

It’s quiet now. It’s just sun and soft sheets and the two of them in Alfred’s bed. Some things are ending now. Others are just beginning. He begins to drift, begins to close his eyes.

Alfred tilts his head up from where it’s resting on Matthew’s chest. He cups his cheek. Winds his fingers into Matthew’s hair. Matthew hears himself make a drowsy noise, and then Alfred chuckles softly.

“Matt,” he calls. Matthew opens his eyes slowly, and Alfred’s looking right at him again. He may never get used to how that makes him feel, and he’s not sure he wants to. After everything, This is what makes him blush. This is what quickens his heart, makes his mouth dry.

Alfred leans in close, winding himself into Matthew inextricably. “I’ll say it for you, Matt. You and nobody else,” he says. And they’re so close, here, so close, and right in this moment, they’re together. Into that last, meager, tiny little space, Alfred whispers their safeword.

 

 

 

 

~finis~

 

All praise and art credit to Bluefox ([@dA](http://blue-fox.deviantart.com)) ([@tumblr](http://allonsyblue.tumblr.com))!!!


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